Monday, July 27, 2009

I have been having awful insomnia for the past 2-3 weeks now. Maybe it's because Absolutepunk.net. Maybe it's because David thinks the Libertines are above everything. Who knows. I don't go to bed till at least 3 in the morning, and I'm up around 9am.

I feel like complete shit. I'm losing myself for no reason. I need to really get my shit together.

I need to man up and say "I like you".

The voice in my head says "she's not interested. move along, bub. she doesn't want to talk to a sad fat sorry kid like yourself".

I need to tell myself I'm awesome.

I need to look in the mirror and like what I see.

I need to schedule a doctors appointment to get my lapband filled.

I need a lapband support group meeting.

I need a courtesy swipe and a bullet to the brain plz kthx.

I need a second job lined up for me.

I need to get myself out of shoprite before I get fired for stealing sushi or yelling at customers.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Seriously, a lot of things about me and my character have changed since May.

But I'm still a fool. I'm an immature teenager. I'm extremely unreliable. You need me to do something? You best remind me often. You want to hang out? Well, I want to hang out too, only with certain people. Some people I just don't want a party. Does that make sense? It probably doesn't at all. There are others I want to hang out, but I have anxiety over certain things.

There are a lot of things about me you don't know anything about. Things you wouldn't understand. Things you couldn't understand. Things you shouldn't understand. You don't want to get mixed up with a guy like me.

I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

But in all seriousness.

There are some things I feel as if I should tell you, or somebody, to let you know who I've become. I've finally come to accept a few things.

I have been struggling with depression for almost 6 years now. I need to get help, or else things will eventually get worse. I've been in denial about it this whole time, playing it off as me just being a sad, fat, lonely kid going through his teenage years. Some days I'm fine. Somedays, I'm extremely happy. Those rare days are so nice, to just be genuinely happy. But at least 95%, I'm upset. I'm upset that I'm overweight. I had freakin' Lap Band surgery, and i'm sitting here like a fat fucking slob. I gross myself out. I need a workout buddy. I'm upset that I've still never kissed a girl. I'm fucking 19, and even when intoxicated, I can't fucking do it. It eats at me. Some people I know complain about breaking up with their girlfriend/boyfriend. Get over it. You at least had somebody. I've never had anybody. I'm upset about my job. I fucking hate shop rite. Somedays I just want to climb over the register and punch old bitches in the face for not bagging their $400 worth of groceries, steal a pack of sushi, call all my bosses old fat cunts, and then do donuts in the parking lot. If I'm going out, I'm going out in style. I'm upset, so I started smoking cigarettes. Why? No idea. Wanted to try it. I liked the way the menthol tasted, and how it really calmed me down when I was stressed out. My friends telling me to quit stressed me out more, so I would chain smoke more out of spit. But, I have decided to stop for the time being.

Also, the last thing that upsets me is Petey.

Petey was our orange kitty. He was a fiesty little fucker, but incredibly loving at the same time. About 4 weeks ago, he ran away. I just want to know if he's okay, and if his body hasn't been scraped up at the side of the road where pavement meets sidewalk.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

If you listen to, and enjoy, bands like 3oh!3 and BrokeNCYDE, two "bands" (I use this term loosely because what they "play" isn't music) who are up-and-coming in the new CrunkCore (basically Screamo vocals over top Techno-House snyth and hip hop drum loops) genre,

then this blog entry is NOT for you. People who like this shit excuse for the latest scene girl trend should just jump off buildings. Trust me, they'll be better off that way.

Ok, back to my point.

As I eagerly await for Brand New to announce when their fourth full length will hit stores, I find myself on AbsolutePunk.net. I'm sorry, there's no way I can completely separate myself from social networking sites. Anyway, AP.net has been my savior during this Lenten season. I live and breath music, and this site is like paradise. Wanna know about new cds coming up? This site is for you. Wanna find new music to listen to? AP.net got it.

So,

I was browsing the Music Forum on the site, and there was a thread titled "Manchester Orchestra - Mean Everything To Nothing LEAKED".

Since...idk, September, I have been listening to this band, and have been captivated by the music. It's powerful. It's melodic. Andy Hull's soft vocals and powerful bellows have gotten the best of me, and I'm hooked for life. If you ever have the time, try to listen to the tracks "The Procession", "Wolves at Night", "Colly Strings", "I Can Feel a Hot One", and their single off the new cd "I've Got Friends". Anyway, Mean Everything to Nothing hits shelves April 21st, and it saddens me that this album leaked. I am, however, part of the problem. I need new, kickass music, and since Brand New won't say anything, I downloaded it.

And all I can say is "Wow".

This cd is really, really... phenomenal.

These guys are basically indie rock, but this cd has more of a Nirvana edge to it, and it's excellent. The song writing is great, the music is full of emotion and each song has a bigger than life quality. I may even pay ten bucks on April 21st to re-get this album, it's that damn good.

And, I highly suggest you all do the same. You will NOT be disappointed.

And I think now I'm going to start a new blog where I review some of the latest releases. Why not?

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Well, I haven't updated in a while, and I would like for this update to be bangin', so let's just see how it goes.

Sooooooo....

I got texting back last week. The no texting thing was getting crazy, and nobody called me like I thought they would. I also didn't make an effort to call anybody, so it evens out.

I called Greg the other night to get my facebook and myspace passwords back, because I was bored, and he won't give me them. So I guess I'll have to stick with that.

So, remember my post about the song I wrote for that girl?

You think I'd learn my lesson to never write one for a girl again, right?

Wrong.

The only difference this time, this girl asked for a song.

But mid-writing, I kinda started liking her. And the lyrics aren't like too overbearing, but I guess you could say *cute*. The music for the song, however, is banging. One of the favorite music piece I wrote. If you like post-punk songs in 6/8, then this song is for you.

But, instead of actually performing in front of her, I started to record it. The music track is down, and hopefully I'll have vocals done, and everything mixed by this time next week.

I think I'm investing too much time and energy into this song, because I think, no, I know, that shit's gonna blow up in my face. Again.

But the friends that do know about this song think that I will get some ass from it. Their logic is because they say the girl is a hoodrat, which I don't want, but this girl is really nice, and she's a good person on the inside, and that's all that matters.

I don't want to, but I'm gonna prove them wrong.

Oh, I got a hair cut yesterday. I no longer have the swoopy bang that flips above my left eye.

It no longer does that flippy thing like that guy in that band does sometimes.

This style is now a faux hawk. I found a picture of Ewan McGregor (sighhhhh (no homo))

sporting a short, but well cut, faux hawk, and I instantly went "I want that."

So I gots one, and it's not in the style of my one friends Jew-FroHawk. It's just a little bit better. Just a little bit.

I got this cut at a place called Great Clips. I usually visit my hairstylist (no homo, again) Perry, who works at Panache in Northfield. He's a good dude, likes Morrissey, so its a win win. He's the only guy I can trust with my hair, so when he was all booked up the other day, I had no other option. I was very wary of going there, but the lady did a good job. But after the cut, I go home, and on the tv is a Great CLips commercial, the likes of which I've never seen. It's a bunch of people around a Louisiana BBQ, all sportin' fresh cuts. Honestly, the food looked better than the hair.

And one last thing. Soon, I will be better than Billy Talarico in Call of Duty. And when it happens, shit is gonna get real.

Friday, February 27, 2009

A woman thinks her man is cheating, and you hear her squawk her side of the story for five minutes.

Then the producers video tape the guy's side of the story,

add some angry face shots, and brooding music,

and bam!

He's automatically an asshole.

"Let's bring him out!" you yell.

The accused man is then showered with boos and curse words

and ghetto ma's singing a chorus of

"OH GURRRLLL HE TRIFLIN' "

while walks down the steps to his seat.

His girlfriend yells at him, and berates him on national television.

That's degrading for men, and highly embarrassing, which I think they go hand in hand.

So when the guy tries to explain his side of the story, he's not allowed to talk, because the crowd volume is just too overwhelming.

The lie detector results are in.

Ok, so we find out he's cheating, so therefore he is an asshole,

but please, you had him crucified before he was even given trial.

Second instance:

This time, the wife/girlfriend is a cheater.

Is the guy onstage squawking his side of the story?

No.

The wife/girlfriend beat him to it.

The best defense is a good offence.

She's onstage, crying to you, saying

"I made a mistake, and I have to tell {insert man's name here} a secret."

She doesn't get booed at like the cheating man.

She maybe gets one shouted obscenity, and a few sympathy awes.

You bring the guy out onstage, and the crowd is quiet.

She tells him her secret, the guy is upset, and the show goes on as planned.

But because she told the guy that she's done something wrong,

she's not at fault.

She 'did the right thing' by telling him.

You even have an episode of 'controlling' men, who accuse their wives of cheating.

These guys are onstage, yelling about their wives, while they sit in a chair and bawl their eyes out. The crowd doesn't want any of his explanation, and they yell louder.

Inside voices don't exist on your show, Maury.

Poor Sally, she'd never cheat on her controlling husband, she's obviously not capable of such a thing.

And before the lie detector results come in, you focus the man's attention to the tv behind you.

It's your wife, and she made a video confession. She came out about her wrong doing.

She has the last laugh.

Third instance:

This one pisses me off the most.

And I'm not making any of this up.

Here we have Shalonda.

She can't find her baby daddy.

I have no clue how many times she's been on your show,

but this time, she's 5,000% sure that the 17th guy she's getting tested is the father of her baby girl.

Spoiler Alert! He's not.

She ends up putting the search on hold, but ends up finding the daddy on a later episode.

But when women like Shalonda don't get it right by the first time, they run and cry to the back stage. You find them there, console them, and tell them you will find the father, no matter what it takes.

You don't make them feel bad for what they did, you just help them thru their baby momma drama.

JESUS.

COME ON.

SHALONDA HAD SEX WITH 17 MEN WITHIN A TWO WEEK SPAN.

HOLY SHIT.

Don't feel bad for Shalonda! Fuckin' tell her to keep her legs closed!

Don't find her baby's dad, put her through counseling. Rehab. Fuck, put her in an institution!

What I'm trying to say here, Maury, is

stop making women look like the victim on your show.

Be more like Steve Wilkos.

On his show, he really lets the bad guy, AND GIRL, have it.

He gets up in their faces, and yells till the veins in his forehead explode.

If they're a bad mother, he tell them straight up.

He doesn't sugar-coat anything.

Or, be more like Jerry Springer show.

Have every guest on that show automatically be an asshole.

Nobody gets a fair say on that show.

And they say it with fists, open palms, and Jerry Beads.

Anyway, Maury, grow a pair, and tell these ladies that they should have respect for themselves, and that they should just STFU when it's someone else's turn to speak.

Another thing, Maury,

your fat baby episodes make me equally as angry.

I know I don't have much room to talk, being a lard ass myself,

but holy shit.

These plus size moms cry and ask "Why is my baby overweight?"

But then they go into detail of what is on their toddler's plates, and what their favorite snacks are.

For breakfast: powdered donuts, waffles, french toast, and strips of bacon.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

I can honestly say I've never felt this happy before. I feel so chill.

I feel like a big weight has been lifted off my chest.

I feel like the possibilities are endless.

Where to begin, where to begin?

I guess I'll start here.

I'm gonna take it back to my freshman year of high school.

Again.

I don't know if this is considered late in the game, but I learned how to text message on my phone my freshman year. I also started my first social networking page. My Xanga.

That was when the downward spiral began.

I became hooked.

Addicted.

I couldn't focus on any of my school work. I wouldn't exercise. I would sit and eat in front of my computer. My lifestyle was unhealthy.

Years passed.

Myspace overthrew my Xanga.

Facebook moved in, and began to coexist with Myspace.

It has been the worst recently.

I would waste at least 4 hours, give or take, sitting behind my computer screen, all before 1 in the afternoon. I would just sit here, staring at the screen, waiting for a notification. A friend request. I once caught myself staring for at least an hour.

It was awful.

I've upgraded my phone to the Verizon EnV, and then the EnV 2.

Full keyboard.

I texted like it was nobody's business. Fastest thumbs in the East. The speed and precision of my texts were ridiculous. I got so good, my drunk texts would read as completely sober (sorry, Mom).

It got to a point where on a normal day, I would have to clear my inbox/outbox, which held 300 messages, twice a day. Maybe three times, depending how social I felt.

About two months ago, I made the decision.

I was going to give up Myspace, Facebook, and text messaging for Lent.

I didn't tell anyone at first because I knew that people would talk shit.

So, around the end of January, I started my "Obligatory Facebook Status Update Countdown".

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

It is possibly the most artificial thing your ears could ever listen to.

Nobody around here is original.

There is seriously one band who all the 'scene' girls like, but they straight up stole the chorus from Yellowcard's "Only One" in one of their more popular songs.

How original.

That is why I like my band, Back Seat Riot.

We're not pop punk. We don't play that emo bullshit.

We can honestly say that we are Rock and Roll.

"Rock and Fucking Roll" as Evan Heffron would say.

Anyway, if anyone reads this, and is in the area, and you might wanna listen to good music, go to this show around 7pm to hear my band. And then, leave right after, because nobody deserves to be put through terrible music.

I made this freakin' bad ass poster last night to help promote the show.

Any way, if you go, awesome. If you don't, it's perfectly okay.

I can understand that times are tough, and you don't have money to spend on a show that will be terrible anyway. If my band weren't in it, I most likely wouldn't go, either.

I was heavily into rap, like I was in 8th grade, so showing up to high school like this would have been cool.

Because of that picture, I almost missed the bus.

I get to my homeroom.

My teacher was Mrs. Harlan.

A nice, blonde, older lady.

I would find out later that Mrs. Harlan was, and always will be, Legendary.

We listen to the morning announcements, and the bell rings.

So I'm walking to my first class, which I think was science, with the school map in hand.

I get lost. I feel like an idiot, so I ask a teacher for some help, and I get there on time.

That's all I remember of my first day.

I think sometime in December, I made on of the stupidest decisions of my life.

I told my friend, Jimmy Johnson, "I think I'm gonna be a goth kid!"

Why? It was sooo irrational. I had no reason why I should do this to myself.

I let my hair grow out long. I then died it jet black. I wish I had photo evidence of this.

On the plus side, I bought my first pair of thick rimmed black glasses.

Then, to have the goth transformation completed, I bought my first Slipknot tee shirt, and listened to them 24/7. I would draw pictures and words on my knuckles, and I thought I was mad sweet. False.

During this time, I started up my very first social networking page. Xanga.

My backgrounds would always be black, or pictures of the jersey devil.

The theme: black and red.

My playlist had almost every song of Slipknot's Volume 3: The Subliminal Verses.

But on this xanga, I met some pretty cool internet friends. One's name was Colleen. She was pretty cool. The other, Elizabeth Beck. This girl was funny as hell. I will always remember how she called my phone one night, and started off our first phone conversation with the words "Jesus tap-dancing Christ on a flagpole!". I laughed for soo long. As a matter of fact, we were just talking on facebook, and she's the inspiration for this post. She's still as funny as freshman year, and is now a Georgia Bulldog. Luckkkyyy.

It's my birthday. My parents are threatening to get me a treadmill, which could possibly be the shittiest gift you could ever give a freshman in high school. I begged for a drum set. I wanted to learn how to play in the worst way. If they would have gotten me a treadmill, I'd still be upset to this day.

But, my parents are amazing. They got me my first kit. A Verve five piece, with their own trash can lid cymbals. And they thought I wouldn't ever play drums. Psshhhhh.

Everybody remembers their first freshman crush, right? Or is it just me?

Kylee was in my history class. she's funny, smart, cute, and an all around nice girl.

We got kinda close, I guess, but I was too much of a p*ssy to ask her out.

Well, four years later, we're freshmen in college, we're in the same math, and I'm the smartest kid in that class, so I help her out. 'Sall good, we're really good friends now!

Around Easter, I noticed that my once beloved birthmark on my right heel was turning, for lack of a better term, funky.

I showed it to my mom, and an appointment was made to see a dermatologist.

Long story short, I was scheduled to have it removed under local anesthesia, and it would be biopsied.

I get it removed, and was now forced to use crutches in school.

The first day back was awful. I could barely make it to the library.

My fat ass had an asthma attack.

So, I lived the last quarter of my freshman year in a wheelchair.

At first it was cool! I could leave class early, get to do wheelies, and go down the ramps as fast as I wanted. After 3rd mod english, I would have somebody wheel me to fourth mod lunch.

That lucky person, ladies and gentlemen, was Greg Marino. We didn't really know each other at the time, but he was the strongest kid who could wheel me up the ramp in C Hall.

Who knew that we would become band mates and best friends? Not this guy.

Anyway, the results of the biopsy came back... funky! They didn't know if it were melanoma or not! They sent it down to the researchers at Johns Hopkins, and seeing how they didn't quite know what it was, they deemed it as an "abnormal lesion of skin cells". Cool, eh?

To be safe, the surgeon suggested that I were to go under general anesthesia, and have more skinned removed, just incase my lesion were to be cancerous. Turns out, I healed faster after my second surgery.

Anyway, life in a wheelchair was hell. Older kids gave me shit. Kids my age gave me shit. It sucked.

And then, you ended. Then it was off to your big brother, Sophmore Year.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

I'm going to be totally ambiguous here. I will keep your anonymity a secret, but if you read this, you will most likely know who you are. Don't come crying to me if you don't like this post, I've had enough of high school drama in the last few hours.

Anyway.

I never knew that a chord progression could ruin a solid quarter of my Junior year.

I-V-VI-iii-IV-I-IV-V.

D-A-b minor-f# minor-G-D-G-A.

Pachelbel's Canon in the key of D.

(Damn you, Johan.

You have to go write a song that sounds all romantical and shit.)

Many others have used these chords to write songs.

Tony Hawk's Pro Skater comes to mind with Goldfinger's "Superman"

Vitamin C's "Graduation (Friends Forever)"

Green Day's "Basket Case"

You get the idea.

I thought, maybe I should follow suit.

Smooth, Max, real smooth.

You were in one of my favorite classes my junior year, your sophmore year.

The best part? We were partners for every project.

We got to chill for 4o-some odd minutes 5 out of 7 days a week.

I seriously couldn't ask for anything better.

We got really close, and we knew a lot about each other.

You were one of the nicest and cutest girls I ever met.

Me, being an idiot, started crushin'.

I took Mr. P's songwriting class, 6th period.

You took it 5th, because you had some other class 6th.

I thought "Oh man, I could totally write you a song, perform it during my class period, and you'd never know!"

The night before my performance for the class, I began to write one of the best songs ever. I stayed up until 4 in the morning, finishing it.

This song put all of my feelings out there. It had our inside jokes, our talents, everything that would make us unique together. It. Was. Awesome.

The day of the performance rolls up.

You're not in the class we shared together, which, I did care that if you were sick, but the fact that you wouldn't be in school made my day better. The song would be sung, and you'd never know.

6th Period arrives.

I open the door.

There you are, the happiest looking black hole in the back of the room.

You run up to me.

"Max, I came in late today! My class right now has a substitute, so I'm gonna be in your song writing class today! You perform today, right!?"

Oh, I perform today, alright.

I felt ill. I had no back up song. It was now or never.

Who knows, maybe the outcome could have been like the end scene of "The Wedding Singer".

I'm in the front of the room, my guitar in my lap, the most evil of microphones in front of my face. This was not going to end well. Not at all.

You sat in the back of the room. The prettiest maelstrom was now dragging my heart to the bottom of the sea, and I haven't even shouted for help.

I started strumming. My eyes were in disbelief. Why was my brain so cruel to make my arms move? My traitorous tongue began singing. I was dead before the ship even sank.

Yes, that is a direct Modest Mouse reference.

Three minutes later, it was over, and the class clapped for my efforts. Mr. P really liked my song, and said that he could most definitely relate to it, having had the same kind of experience when he was in high school.

I went to go sit down, and you joined me at my chair, hugged me and said "great performance!" and left it at that. You acted like my song didn't effect you. You didn't even notice.

Praise Jesus, sing 'Hallelujah'! God is good.

I see you in the hallway two periods later.

You ask, "Max, was that song for me?"

Uh.

"No... what are you talking about?

"Stephanie (name changed to be ambiguous) pointed it out to me. The song is about me. All the lyrics fit."

"Uhm, I don't know what you're talking about." To make it more obvious, "I gotta go to class, I don't wanna be late."

The next few days pass. You didn't question me. We barely even spoke.

We're out to do one of our projects. We're walking the halls. You tell me we need to stop at the school store. This tall, gangly, ginger kid is behind the register. He comes out from behind, you two hug, and you two kiss each other on the lips, hold hands, and canoodle. I leave to finish filming. I never wanted to vomit worse in my whole life.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

I know you have millions of show ideas, including a show for Meghan and a show for Daisy, (both from Rock of Love), and countless other spinoffs, but please, hear me out.

I do not do anything special. I am in a band, but we're not famous. I have, however, had my struggles with getting the ladies. Apparently, I'm too normal or not exciting enough.

That's how we sell it.

"Love to the Max" will be entertaining for the whole family! Seeing how I'm somewhat saving myself for marriage, and how you can't let anyone under 21 drink on national television, my show will be family friendly!

We need more regular, everyday guys on television. It's not fair that we get no love. Sorry we can not be washed up 80's hair metal frontmen, or old, wrinkly political hip hop hype men. God just hasn't blessed us with those unique talents. I'm hoping that God will bless me with this show.

Everyday, average, normal guys need love, too.

I would like for the pilot to be shot with 16 lucky girls. To make for good tv, please include some skanky hoes, or as I will say on the show, "Hoodrats". With the help of my bff Jackie, I will help filter out all the hoodrats untill I'm with a girl who I can hopefully never call again, this way ensuring me that I will have a second season.

I have some challenges already thought up, like the girls have to get gas in my car, then pick up my sister and her rowdy friends, drop them off, and the fastest time in returning to the house gets to spend a date with me.

Another one would be: Who can iron my clothes, make me a sandwich, and clean the kitchen in the fastest time.

And for our dates, we can go walk around or play videogames... however they want to spend quality time with me.

Seeing how I'm picky, and I like my girls to be very well kept, their tokens of my affection will be credit cards. I'll hand out the credit cards during the elimination. If they get to stay, my catch phrase will be something cheesy like "Does your love have a price?", and if they have to leave, "Your love has been Maxed out", where I then cut the card in half with ridiculously oversized scissors.

So, please, I hope you put some serious thought and consideration into this letter.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

First off, I would like to thank my friends Kaila and Jackie for inspiring me to begin to write.

Seeing how I'm very self-centered, this should be easy, writing about myself.

My mom blogs, but I'm not eloquent like her. She's also a big inspiration to me.

Anyways, let's set some ground rules:

1) Everything you read here, on this blog, will be true. This is all the stuff that has happened, or happening, or what will happen to me. Think of me like Tucker Max, only without the sex.

2) Names will not be changed for safety of others. If you have had a profound impact on my life, you will be mentioned.

3) Once I figure out how to, I will change my layout of this blog. Like, seriously, dots? They're annoying, and they don't reflect my personality.

4) I'm a grammar and spelling enthusiast. I like to be correct when I type. I may also often use racist/sexist remarks, but let me reassure you, I'm neither. I just have a twisted sense of humor.

Anyways,

A little bit about me.

I'm new to this writing thing. It seems interesting, so I will roll with it.

I've been drumming for 5 years now. I've been in a couple bands, and I love every opportunity I get to showcase my talent. I guess you could say I'm really good at drumming, but I honestly think I'm bad at it. You can decide for yourself, by going to www.myspace.com/backseatmusicnj.

I'm almost at a year post op since my Lap Band surgery. My highest weight was at 310 lbs, and now I'm struggling to break the 260 mark.

I'm full of angst. It may be because of what lemons life has given me, or it might be from my favorite band, Brand New. Seriously, every song they wrote, I have a connection to.

I also enjoy writing songs, trying to sing, and trying to play guitar. For some more self promotion, you can check out www.myspace.com/maxdauleriomusic.

One more important thing: I have some of the worst luck when it comes to girls.

Another important thing: Karma is real. I do not care if you believe it or not, it is very real.

I also believe that there is a God, and why he (or she) does things, well, we're not supposed to know. I feel that's what faith is all about. Does that make sense to you?

I'm sorry if it doesn't.

Anyhoo, I'm rather tired, and I've been feeling sick all day. I think it's time for my beauty sleep.